


Heartsbane

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Doctor Strange (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Marvel Cinematic Universe Fusion, Clea is a dark and eldritch sex goddess, Daddy Issues, Dark Character, Dark Past, Dorks in Love, Femme Fatale, First Meetings, Foe Yay, Gen, If only they could get their act together, Imprisonment, Magic and Science, Recovery from trauma, Seeking Redemption, Wong is a Good Bro (Marvel), having my way with canon, mcu - Freeform, mwah ha ha, stephen strange is a handsome magical sex-badger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22456531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: While imprisoned by Dormammu Stephen Strange meets a very dangerous being... One who makes his heart race and who absolutely cannot be trusted... Can she? After all, it’s not Clea’s fault who her relatives are...
Relationships: Clea Strange/Stephen Strange, Stephen Strange & Wong
Comments: 51
Kudos: 32





	1. Heartsbane

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. A little present for MizJoely, who tells me she loves Clea and Stephen…

* * *

**HEARTSBANE**

* * *

“I see you’ve returned to us.” 

Wincing, sore all over, Stephen Strange opens his eyes. Raises his head. 

There’s a woman in front of him, all in white. White hair, white skin. Her eyes are ultra-violet in their brightness. They flash with a lavender hue, burning with a magic so potent it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

Everything in his being tells him that this woman is dangerous. 

_And yet, and yet…_ There’s something about her that makes his skin prickle in the most inexplicable way. 

“Who are you?” He asks, his voice so hoarse he’s surprised it still works. 

The woman says nothing though, merely looks at him assessingly. 

“You’re not nearly so fearsome as my father claims,” she says eventually. “Frankly, I expected someone more…” 

“Manly?” Stephen can’t help the sarcasm in his voice, though he knows it won’t help him. God only knows how long he’s been here, how long Dormammu has had him or what has been done to him. He of all people knows how fragile the human body can be. Still, his old arrogance wraps around him, a tattered cloak which will do him no good, and he smiles. 

_He is the Sorceror Supreme, defender of the Earth, dammit._

The woman smiles too. Steps closer to him. She walks calmly around the chair to which he is bound, inspecting him from every angle. Every now and then she stops, her fingers grazing his throat, his hair. The shell of an ear. “Fascinating,” she murmurs, and then- “I have little information on Midgardians. 

I never thought I’d have the chance to examine one in the flesh.” 

“And is that what this is?” Stephen demands. “An examination?” 

The woman shakes her head. Smiles. It’s… sad, but somehow chilling too. “My curiosity is more than merely medical,” she tells him, and it sounds like there’s real regret in her voice. “The more I know about you, the better I can make you last. The better I can wring the information my Emperor demands from you.” She shrugs. Walks back towards the door of his cell. “Judging on what I’ve seen, I think we shall start with “cold.” 

And then she taps on the door, opens it. 

The guards standing outside look absolutely petrified of her. 

“Cold what?” Stephen snaps. She’s speaking in riddles and he finds it maddening. Surely the only person who should be speaking in riddles is him? The woman turns on her heel though, looks at him keenly. “There are six schools of torture,” she says crisply. “Loud, sharp, blunt, hot, cold and wet.” 

Another shrug. 

“I normally start with loud, but I don’t want to risk damaging your hearing, not when we can’t get a telepath to communicate with you should it go.” Stephen files away that small piece of information, hides a tiny sense of triumph. So, the last ditch protections for his mind still hold, do they? 

_He’ll have to buy Wanda a beer._

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” the woman says wryly. “You have but slowed a process, not defeated it. My father will have the knowledge he seeks, I will see to that.” 

Stephen rallies. “And do you have a name, oh cocky one?” He asks. 

Again, the tatters of his arrogance feather about him. 

The woman smiles, and the terror of the thing is its gentleness. “You may call me Clea,” she tells him. “The soldiers call me Clea Heartsbane.”

She sketches him a mocking little bow. 

“I’m His Majesty’s torturer.” 

And with that she leaves him. Still bleeding. Still tied to that chair. Still helpless, the one thing he has sworn he will never be again. 

Stephen tells himself that he shouldn’t let her title worry him. He tells himself that Wong, Thor and, even, God help him, Loki, are on their way to save him, but still… 

He is not a stupid man and never has been. 

He knows a predator when he sees one, no matter how lovely her eyes. 

The prickle of her magic hangs in the air, intoxicating and utterly alien, as Stephen tries to calm his heart. 

  
  



	2. BattleBorn

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Another little present for MizJoely, as well as OhAine. Not sure how many more there will be but enjoy!

* * *

**BATTLEBORN**

* * *

She kisses him on the way to his execution- Because _of course_ she does.

Bloodied, beaten, but still in possession of all the secrets he hadn’t intended to lose, Stephen Strange feels the sudden motion of her beside him. Feels Clea’s arms about his neck and then her mouth is on his. Pressing. Tasting. Nipping. Licking.

_It feels electric._

Chest to chest, breath to breath, the kiss feels quicksilver. Impossible. Like something he’s never felt before- Which of course is completely ridiculous. _Stephen can only blame so stupid a thought on the loss of blood._ Because he was a New York neurosurgeon: he played Doctor with half the Upper East Side in his day. And while the women involved may not have been the terrifying daughter of an eldritch demon god, the sensations involved were absolutely similar- For the most part.

_**And yet…** _

Clea smirks at his guards when she’s finished. Steps away with a satisfied grin, a twinkle in her eye. In her white gown she looks almost angelic and the thought makes Stephen snort.

He can feel the impression her lips left, burning on his skin. 

“It’s how they say goodbye on Midgard,” she tells the guards, her tone innocent. “At least-“ a coquettish look at her prisoner- “that’s what I’ve been told.”

And with those words she saunters away, pushing through the massive doors into Dormammu’s Throne Room and genuflecting before her father’s throne. Announcing her prisoner’s name and then motioning for the guards to drag Stephen in. Indicating where he should be made to stand as Dormammu hands down his death sentence.

She doesn’t take her eyes off the throne - or its demonic occupant- the entire time.

Stephen is forced inside in her wake, trying his best to keep his head up and project as much hauteur as possible. “Dormammu,” he murmurs dryly to himself, “I’ve come to bargain.” Out of the corner of his eye he spies a kneeling Thor, already bound and bloodied, the victim, perhaps, of Clea’s other attentions…

“Strange,” the Asgardian calls out hoarsely. “These work outings of ours get more enjoyable every time.” A bloodied grin. “Add in Banner and we could make it a proper party!”

A beautiful (and strangely familiar) brunette to his right rolls her eyes and Thor grins brightly at her. In retaliation the brunette sticks her tongue out at him, causing Clea to shake her head and gesture with her eyes towards her father.

Though her eyes are dancing her tone is utterly grave.

“All in my father’s presence must behave with decorum,” she intones. This is directed to the brunette. “And if you must speak, Thor Odinsson, then use that insolent voice to beg the great Dormammu for mercy...”

Thor turns that infuriatingly bright grin on her _and_ Dormammu.

“I’d sooner bed a plague-riddled bildshnipe than ask that venomous mass you call a father for mercy,” he tells Clea cheerfully. At Dormammu’s hiss of disapproval he winks at Stephen. “And I’m willing to place coin that Stephen here feels exactly the same. So why-“ Thor forces himself to his feet- “don’t you come down here, Dormammu, and face me yourself?

Or are the stories true, and you truly are nothing but a giant, sparkly coward?”

 _Subtle_ , Stephen thinks. _Very subtle_.

The look on the brunette’s face tells him she agrees.

With a bellow of rage the Lord of The Dark Dimension gets to his feet. Flows down the steps of his Throne Room in a glittering flood of starlight and decay. The walls shake, every single being present shrinking back as the great Dormammu swings his terrible hand back and prepares to cleave Thor in two with nothing but his fingernails- Not even that, with nothing but his voice-

And then suddenly, suddenly, pain rips through Stephen.

Without any warning he’s lifted into the air, hung suspended from it as a burning agony sparks through his limbs.

Alien magic burns bitterly on his lips, his tongue. 

Before his eyes he sees his body start to shake, to glow, that strange, alien magic burning its way through him… Pouring out of his mouth and out into the room... 

There’s a moment of silence, so deep it feels he could actually fall into it, and then what he will later describe as a magical bomb rips its way out from deep within him. Tearing him apart. Ripping through the Throne Room. Ripping through the Dark Dimension, its walls, its limits...

The last thing he will see before he blacks out is Clea, licking her lips as she stands over Dormammu’s fallen form, a knife in her hand.


	3. KingKillers

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Another little present for MizJoely, as well as OhAine, who seemed to like the first.

* * *

**KINGKILLERS**

* * *

Stephen wakes to Thor Odinsson’s ass-cheek, smashing him in the face. Repeatedly.

It takes him a couple of groggy seconds to realise what he’s face to face with, and how Thor must be carrying him (over his shoulder), and then he sputters out some truly New York epithets.

_He may now live in the Village but he grew up in Queens._

“Dammit,” he snaps. “Put me down, Thor.”

“In a moment, Strange,” the massive Asgardian says, picking up his pace considerably. Now that he’s awake Stephen can hear the sounds of weapons fire, can hear yells and screams all about him. Dormammu’s palace is in chaos, dark magic tracing over each surface like rot through a corpse. Again Stephen swears: Every inch of his body hurts and he feels as if he’s been sucked dry of magic but nevertheless he tries to summon a shield-

“Stop that.” This from the mysterious brunette who had been so friendly with Clea in Dormammu’s Throne Room. “Using mortal magic will just paint a target on us-“

“And wandering around with a prisoner over his shoulder won’t?” Stephen strains is neck to throw the woman a disgruntled glare. She merely smiles, blowing him a kiss and then using the absolutely massive gun she’s carrying to dispatch several of Dormammu’s soldiers before they can block their escape.

It is, Stephen has to admit, kinda impressive.

Also kinda hot.

He really regrets thinking that and promptly decides to blame it on trauma from his injuries. 

_It really should be good for something._

“Loki, Thor,” he hears Clea call then. “This way! _Now_ , you idiots.”

There’s another burst of fire and then to their right Stephen sees the Emperor’s torturer gesturing hurriedly. She’s standing beside a portal, a ravening maw of magic and darkness which is sucking in everything in sight. The knife he saw her use of Dormammu is still in her hand, dripping blood, and she’s using it to feed to portal. _That’s_ what’s keeping it open.

Stephen is fairly certain she’s breaking several laws of the universe in order to do what she’s doing but he doubts right now is the proper place to discuss ethics. Not if he wants out of here alive. _So_ -

“Can she be trusted?” Thor asks the brunette- Loki, Stephen realises- Before he can say anything and the trickster shrugs. “As much as one might trust me, brother,” she laughs before jogging off in the direction of the portal. “Doesn’t look like we have much choice,” she adds, stopping to throw Thor another grin before diving merrily through with a whoop-

“I fear that Dormammu’s daughter has been a bad influence on her,” Thor mutters. Now that they’re near enough to the gateway he sets Stephen back on his feet. Peers worriedly at him. “Can you walk?” He asks, something which Stephen snaps an affirmative to, right before he nearly keels over.

Again he leans heavily into his New York vocabulary and heritage. 

“Go through,” Clea says, catching him. She and Thor help him get back to his feet. “I tried to open it in front of your sanctum, Strange, but I’m not sure if I succeeded- I suggest you find out.”

And without waiting for his permission she and Thor manhandle him through the portal. They’re tipped head over heels, smashed and pinioned and grated through the flesh of the universe… The flesh of the _multiverse_ …

Stephen is suddenly, sickeningly reminded of his car crash and the memory makes him quake.

The journey lasts mere moments though they are more than long enough for Stephen. There’s a flash of white, milky light, a gust of wind. The portal spits them out, not in front of the Santum Sanctorum but in front of Metro-General hospital- _Because of course it does._

They hit the ground heavily, what little wind was left in him knocked right out. Christine Palmer is standing outside, having a coffee and talking on her cell but as soon as she sees them she comes running over, yelling for assistance as she goes. To his left Stephen hears a curse and then Loki is at Thor’s side, helping her brother to his feet. Fussing over him whilst trying to look like she’s not fussing. Stephen flops on his back, taking deep breaths and trying to calm the sickening thud of panic which going through the portal has unleashed in him-

“What happened to you?” Christine snaps. “What the Hell happened to you, Stephen?” 

“We escaped.” 

The words aren’t his, and when he turns to look at Clea she’s shaking, her face a rictus of pain. Her eyes are glowing purple and she looks like every bone in her body is trying to get out. Her spine arcs like a bow, mouth opening in a scream that is one part horror, ten parts abject rage- 

It’s her Christine goes to, not him, and he doesn’t blame her one bit. 


	4. Cursebroken

_ Disclaimer:  _ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Another little present for MizJoely and OhAine, who seemed to like the first. Thanks for their reviews go to IantoLives, devil girl and 3seconds. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**CURSEBROKEN**

* * *

Christine swarms over Clea, trying to check her. 

She’s asking her for her name, trying to get a pulse. A reaction. All she gets in response is some curses (literal) and a hiss of pain as Clea starts to shake. To toss her head, her spine bending ever more painfully. Purple, oily tears leak from her eyes, sweat coating her skin; Here and there bones poke through, their edges splintering as they react to Earth’s atmosphere. 

When Dormammu’s daughter starts to glow, a burning lavender light beneath her skin, Christine wisely backs the Hell off. 

_ She’s been around magic long enough now to know that glowy and painful are a bad mix.  _

“Stephen?” She looks to him, brow furrowed in worry, and Strange shakes his head. Gestures for her to back away. He feels drained, utterly free of magic, but he can feel it coming off of Clea in waves.  _ He just can’t do anything about it.  _

Someone will have to, however. 

“Loki,” he croaks, “we need you to go to the Sanctum Santorum and get Wong-“ 

“You need Wong?” Christine interrupts. “I can just call him on his cell.” 

Stephen, Thor and even Loki blink at her. 

“He’s down as your emergency contact, Stephen,” Christine says, some colour coming to her cheeks. “I figured after last time that I should have his details...” 

She pulls out her phone, scrolling through numbers and then dialling. As she moves off to take the call Loki and Thor take her place over Clea, holding her down so she can’t harm herself. A couple of seconds later Wong picks up- “Hi, Benedict? Is that you? He’s here at Metro General-“ and before Christine has even finished speaking the telltale spark of a sling ring portal appears in the air.

Wong hurries through, Wanda and one of the new recruits, Ilyana, at his elbow. 

They look ready for battle but when they see Clea they stop. Stare. 

It’s telling that they barely spare a glance for Loki. 

“We need to get her back to Bleeker Street,” Stephen says, forcing himself to his feet. Wong nods, his eyes fastened on Clea. He keeps himself protectively between the alien woman and Ilyana, his youngest pupil; It’s Wanda who gestures to Clea, moving her upright and towing her towards the portal. As Stephen watches the witch envelopes her patient in a thick cocoon of scarlet energy, a small cage for so great a magical charge. 

_ It’s all they have right now, though.  _

With a nod to Christine and a kiss to her temple Stephen moves creakingly towards the portal. Thor- bless him- keep one hand at the small of his back, offering support without being obvious about it. 

_ It makes his sister roll her eyes.  _

They step through Wong’s portal and Stephen feels a gust of wind, darkness flashing against his face and then suddenly the Cloak of Levitation wraps itself around his shoulders, bolstering him and helping him stand.  _ He’ll leave the mystery of how it found its way back to him for another day.  _ The Cloak bleeds a tiny amount of magic from itself into him, alleviating his pain as nothing else would have and he strokes one hand gently over the collar in thanks- 

“Should we leave you two alone?” Loki inquires, batting her eyelashes. 

In answer the Cloak flips its edge upright and knocks that annoying horned diadem off her head. 

Stephen grins. Thor chortles. 

Loki mutters something uncomplimentary about Avengers in general, and these two in particular.  _ But-  _

“Stephen.” Wanda’s voice is urgent. She gestures to Clea. “We need to get her somewhere safe and figure out what’s wrong with her-“ 

“Earth is wrong with me,” the young woman pants through gritted teeth. “Not being in the Dark Dimension is wrong with me.” 

The words seem to have been wrenched from somewhere deep within her. 

Another flare of light pulses beneath her skin and she lets out a low, feral howl of pain that sets the hairs on the back of Stephen’s neck straight. 

Ilyana stares at her with wide, horrified eyes and Wong takes the girl’s hand. Gestures towards the stairs. “Go, child,” he mutters. “Open a portal back to Kamer Taj-“ 

The girl nods, taking the stairs up to the training room two at a time. As soon as she’s gone some of the tension goes out of Clea’s face. Stephen frowns to see it. 

_ What sort of a torturer worries about harming a child?  _

“You need to put me somewhere secure,” Clea pants. “Somewhere I can’t… I can’t…” 

“Oh look, you’ve taken up caring,” Loki coos. In response Clea glares and she is suddenly knocked off her feet. Wanda flicks a hand and a sling ring portal opens beneath the Asgardian which she promptly drops through with a sputtered yell. 

Wong and Wanda share a tight smile. 

As Loki falls Stephen gestures and a small emerald sphere detaches itself from her chest. The portal flicks closed and the sphere floats over to Stephen, hovering over his heart and reaching out. Testing. Tasting. Seeking for the Eye of Agamotto in which it had rested for so long. 

_ It had, after all, been on Earth for longer than any other Infinity Stone.  _

Though its cradle isn’t to hand Stephen cups his palms around it. Holds it to him. He brings it to rest against his chest and warmth, magic, seeps into him. Floods him. It feels like coming home. 

Suddenly the injuries and pains of the last few weeks melt away. 

Suddenly, with the Time Stone at his disposal and his body recovering he knows what to do. 

“Wanda,” he says. “Try to keep her steady.” 

The young witch nods tightly and as easily as breathing he moves his fingers. Carves the sigils and runes into thin air. 

The Eye glows luridly in the Santum’s eternal gloom. 

Time moves, stretches, stitches itself together. A moment is detached from all its fellows and moulded into a pocket. A cage. A possibility. A place for safety, and for danger. 

When she sees what he’s doing Clea lets out a relieved sigh. 

The cage pulses, grows, and Wanda nods again, understanding. Lending her own magic to his purpose. She pushes Clea into this new pocket dimension and holds her steady. Keeps her bound. 

Stephen steps inside after her and the entrance knits itself shut, a tiny tendril of magic the only thing binding him to the universe outside. 

_ Now,  _ he thinks,  _ I can work.  _

  
  



	5. Woundwoven

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to 3Seconds, IantoLives, MizJoely, OhAine and Devilgrrl. Slight swearing in this. 

* * *

**WOUNDWOVEN**

* * *

“Impressive.” 

Panting, shivering, huddled on her hands and knees, Clea still manages to sound smug as she looks up at Stephen. 

The Sorcerer Supreme says nothing, merely cocking an eyebrow, and she laughs. 

With creaking slowness she shifts until she’s sitting cross-legged, elbows resting on her knees, her smile widening. “I warned Dormammu not to underestimate you when I heard about that business with Kaecilius, but he did not take my advice.” A shrug, made a lot less careless than Stephen suspects it’s meant to be by how she winces. 

“Of course, he’s dead now,” she points out, “so it hardly matters.” 

“Is that why you killed him?” 

Strange frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. Now that she’s inside his pocket universe her reaction to Earth’s atmosphere seems to be abating, though he’s not sure why. Still, since he’s met her Clea has been several steps ahead of him, something he’d like to remedy. 

_While Thor and Loki may have promised her safe passage to Earth, he’s unwilling to grant her sanctuary without a great deal more to go on than simple expediency._

The alien shoots him the same assessing look she had the first day she came to torture him. “I killed Dormammu for many reasons,” she says. “That he never listened to my advice, wise as it was, came quite low on the list, actually.” 

Stephen isn’t convinced but he keeps that to himself. “And what came higher?” He inquires, matching her arch tone.

Again that assessing look. 

“Survival,” she says simply. 

He nods. “So you little spot of patricide was self-interested-” 

For a moment, a split second, anger sparks in her eyes but when she sees his notice of it she wipes it away, making her expression bland. _Suspiciously_ bland. “Most actions in life are self-interested, one way or another,” she says matter-of-factly. “I would have thought a companion of Loki Odinsdottir would know that.” 

Despite himself Stephen blushes slightly, remembering how attractive he’d found the trickster in her female, heavily armed form during their escape from Dormammu’s palace. 

At this Clea laughs. 

“She has that effect on everyone, so I’m told,” she says. “There is a legend that Odin only made his child learn how to assume a masculine form so that the guards in his palace would get some work done.” Another laugh. “I can well believe it.”

Stephen grits his teeth. “Loki Odinson led an attempted invasion of Earth,” he says tightly. “I know what he did, I saw Manhattan-“ 

“And you saw the devastation.” Clea nods. “Ah.” She starts getting to her feet. She straightens up creakingly, wincing in pain still. “That would explain your reaction- Watching that sort of destruction would effect anyone, Stephen.” 

She meets his eye and then, to his surprise, bows to him stiffly from the waist. “I ask your forgiveness, Stephen Strange,” she says, “for my insult. And I give you my forgiveness, for what you are about to do.” 

She straightens up to her full height. Raises her chin. 

“I would ask that you make it quick,” she says, “but that would be cowardice. Strike as you may.” 

And she holds her arms out, palms facing him, and closes her eyes. 

Once again Stephen blinks, wrongfooted. _Why does she always seem to do this to him?_ “You think I’m going to hit you because I was embarrassed about finding Loki attractive?” He asks incredulously. 

Now it’s Clea’s turn to blink.

“No, I think you’re going to strike me down for what I did to you in the Dark Dimension.” She cocks her head, expression curious. “I give you my forgiveness for it, there is no crime here, Stephen. Strike as you may.”

Again she closes her eyes. 

Again Strange’s expression turns to consternation. 

“You think I brought you here to kill you?” He demands. “You think I’d murder you in cold blood?” 

“All blood is cold,” Clea answers, her tone equally confused. “I would know; I have had more than enough of it on my hands in my time.” She steps towards him, frowning. For a moment he thinks she will touch his arm but she pulls back. 

“Dormammu had to be stopped,” she says quietly, “so I stopped him. His empire had to be ended, so I ended it. I am all that is left, and I have no illusions about my fitness for survival- Having been on the receiving end of my skills you can have no doubt of it either, Stephen Strange.

So end me.” 

And she nods again, stepping back. Closing her eyes, her expression oddly at peace. Stephen stares at her, remembering what she had done to him. Freezing temperatures in his cell, needles of ice pressed into his joints. Long, thin plates of burning hot metal brought against his chest and sides, leaving burns which had had to be cleaned and drained before being healed and inflicted again. _She’s right: He’s well aware of what she can do._ And yet- 

Her look at Ilyana as she ran up the stairs to return to Kamer Taj. 

The way she had tried to keep herself in check in front of Christine. 

She had never pushed him so far that he gave up everything, he thinks. She had never used those methods which might have actually broken him, such as playing with his mind. 

In fact, for someone with such a formidable reputation she had been remarkably careless when it came to him, remarkably _clueless_. It didn’t make any sense. 

_Something told him Clea Heartsbane didn’t make mistakes like that._

“You went easy on me,” he said softly, the pieces fitting together. “You used me to get to your fa- To Dormammu. You spared me as much as you could, and then you helped me escape.” 

Clea’s eyes flash open. Anger pulls at her features, making her eyes spark and snatching her lips into a snarl. “I went easy on you,” she says, “because you had something I wanted. I was not so charitable with others, believe me.” A snort. “Charity is not in my nature,” she spits- 

“Nor is it in mine.”

At his words she looks at him, for the first time in their acquaintance not only surprised but alarmed. 

_Stephen’s not a saint: he finds that look on her face quite entertaining_. But- 

“Death is easy,” he says. “Living is hard. And suicide by Avenger is not my style.” 

“Meaning?”

She sounds utterly bewildered. 

“Meaning,” Stephen says, “That you will die eventually, but not today. And not by my hand. Unless-“ he holds up a finger when she tries to speak over him. “Unless you try to harm anyone on Earth, or anyone I care about. Then I will act.” At her bewildered expression he softens slightly. 

“Not everyone gets a second chance,” he says softly. “This is yours: Don’t fuck it up.” 

When she still doesn’t speak he pulls himself back. Straightens up and, with a theatrical crack of his knuckles, smiles. “So now, how about we figure out how to keep you alive once we get out of here?” 

And without waiting for her to speak he begins casting, trying different bits of atmospheric magic in order to protect her. _Maybe he could make a small, malleable pocket of dark dimension energy for her to inhabit?_ He thinks. _It would be easier than trying to alter her physical makeup…_

Clea watches him silently, still bewildered, but she doesn’t try to stop him or pull away. 

  
  



	6. LifeLines

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.. 

* * *

**LIFELINES**

* * *

She has trouble sleeping once she returns to Earth, but then they both do. 

Stephen because of the still occasional pain in his hands, Clea because of her nightmares. Her very _loud_ nightmares. 

_In the first week she manages to wake an entire city block four times._

It’s not that Stephen doesn’t suffer from nightmares too- Some of the things he’s seen, some of the things he’s _done,_ insist on coming out to play whenever he sleeps. Nightmares about the car crash will be with him for the rest of his life, as will nightmares about his parents’ death. The loss of Donna. The five years he’d been gone, and what it had done to Christine. Sometimes his brain replays the many, many, many times he watched the world end for his amusement too and on those nights he wakes in a cold sweat, trying to pretend his throat isn’t tight from tears- 

_There was so much loss, so much horror. He’d seen the end of the universe_ **_so many times…_ **

But his terrors are not like Clea’s. Not really. 

For one thing, despite his powers he doesn’t make things shake when he’s asleep and scared. _He_ doesn’t set tremors through the Sanctum Santorum, nor does he crack windows, walls and roof beams as he tosses in bed. He doesn’t levitate or float; he doesn’t summon magical objects to his door unless he means to, and he doesn’t wake up drenched in magic or covered in blood- Both of which Clea manages within the first month. _It’s actually kind of impressive._

When he asks her about it she becomes silent and stares him out. 

She is well aware that her gaze strays towards terrifying when she wants it to and she is not shy of using such a trick, Stephen soon learns. 

When that doesn’t work- _Stephen is Stephen, after all_ \- she stalks off. Sometimes he finds her sitting in the library, reading: She learned the English alphabet in a week, and written Tibetan in a month. More often he finds her and Wong sparring: the other sorcerer doesn’t like having her in New York and has made no secret of the fact. 

He doesn’t trust her around their young recruits and Strange understands why, even if he doesn’t entirely agree. 

With her usual perverseness though, this seems to make Clea more comfortable in Wong’s presence than she is in anyone else’s. Wanda points out that maybe that’s to be expected, that someone who grew up in a war zone can’t be expected to trust anyone overnight. When Wong counters that Clea more likely grew up in the lap of luxury Wanda cocks an eyebrow at him, inquires whether he really believes anyone dreams of being Dormammu’s torturer when they grow up? 

“Sometimes we play the hand we’re dealt,” she says softly and because he knows her background- and because he cares for her so much- Wong reluctantly concedes that she might have a point. 

He still refuses to trust Clea however, and at this Wanda always ends up throwing her hands in the air and stalking off. 

“They really should just copulate and get it over with,” Clea says when she walks in on one such discussion. 

_She clearly knows that they were discussing her and yet she makes no mention of it._

Stephen looks at her. “Wong and Wanda?” He asks, incredulous. 

Clea shrugs. “The heart is an odd thing, is it not?” There is something in her tone though, something Stephen can’t put his finger on. As when she spoke of her reasons for killing Dormammu, the moment seems more drenched in what she’s not saying than what she is. 

For perhaps the hundredth time he finds himself thinking how off-putting he finds her. 

“Stop staring, Strange,” Clea says sharply, interrupting his thoughts. “It makes you look vacant.” She hands him back the textbook on anatomy he leant her and, not for the first time, Stephen wonders how more people didn’t used to smack him back in the day. _Maybe,_ he thinks, _he was just more charming than Clea…_

Somehow he doubts it. 

“I wish to sit on the roof,” the alien woman announces grandly, “could you warn Wong? Before he becomes alarmed at my presence there?” 

And without waiting for Stephen’s answer she sweeps away and up the staircase, heading, no doubt, for the roof. Through some magic Stephen isn’t familiar with she has managed to become familiar with every winged creature in New York and she sometimes likes to hold court among them. 

Apparently today will be one of those days. 

“Wong and Wanda aren’t the only people who should get their copulating out of the way,” a voice drawls, and when Stephen turns he spies Loki, newly male again and under house arrest while his brother pleads his case with his fellow Avengers. 

The trickster is sprawled in Stephen’s chair, the sort of grin that would justify murder splitting his face. 

_Just looking at him makes Strange want to break things._

“Some day Loki,” Strange says, “someone is going to take that diadem of yours and put it where the son doesn’t shine.” 

And he turns on his heel and starts stalking away. 

Loki’s eyes are merry as he calls after him. “I do so love to watch you flounce away-” 

He manages to evade the sling ring portal that Stephen opens up beneath him but it’s a satisfyingly close call. 

* * *

A storm comes to New York one autumn night and the electricity becomes sporadic. 

Stephen, alone in the Sanctum while Wong and the students return to Kamer Taj, elects to amuse himself with using his magic to listen to some vinyl and watch the lightning slit the sky. 

It’s well past midnight and he’s knee-deep into the Beatles’ _Rubber Soul_ when he hears footsteps behind him. 

Electricity and magic spark in the air. 

He turns to see Clea, shivering in her nightdress and staring, not at him, but at his stereo. “What’s that?” She says. 

As she had the day he told her he wouldn’t kill her, she sounds bewildered. 

Stephen gets to his feet, not sure whether she’s referring to the stereo or the music. “It’s called a record player-“

“I know that.” Her voice is impatient. Lavender eyes flicker to him and then back to the stereo. “I meant- I meant…” She gestures with her hands, a little unsure. A little lost. It looks wrong on her somehow. “What is the noise?” Her fingers splay, as if she could actually touch the notes. “What is that _vibration?”_

“It’s a song,” Stephen says. At her blank look he elaborates. “Music? C’mon, you must have heard of music-“

“I have heard of it, but not hear it,” she says. She sounds distracted. “I- It was not permitted at my father’s court. It was forbidden.” Again that odd blankness she sometimes summons flickers across her face. 

“All things lovely were forbidden,” she says. 

Slowly, hesitantly, she enters Stephen’s room. Her eyes still on the stereo she comes to rest stiffly against the side of his bed, her brow furrowed as if in deep thought. Strange slides over, making room for her, and at the sudden movement she startles. Summons a wall of magic between the pair of them as strong as one of the forks of lightning outside. 

As quickly as it appears she sends it away. Brusquely she demands whether it had harmed Stephen and when he says no she nods. Sits down on his bed. 

She keeps a wide, safe distance between them. 

“Might I have such a device?” She asks eventually, minutes later. Songs later. 

Stephen nods. “Sure, I think we can swing that. Can I ask why?” 

She looks at him, her eyes fathomless and alien. Utterly alien. 

“I think it might help me sleep,” she says. 

* * *

It turns out that she is correct. 


	7. RuneBlind

_ Disclaimer:  _ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks to OhAine for her review.

* * *

**RUNEBLIND**

* * *

Time passes and she settles. 

Time passes and Stephen becomes... accustomed to her, he supposes. Accustomed to her voice, her mannerisms. Her imperiousness. Becomes accustomed to the notion that he’s rarely alone, even in the Sanctum Santorum, and for that he is grateful (no matter how little he might like to admit it). The suspiciously meticulous magical experiments he finds in the labs no longer worry him (though they do Wong) and the suspiciously sharp long-handled axe he finds in her room no longer bother him either. 

Clea is part of his universe now, part of his company. She earns her keep. She teaches the students. When Kaecilius tries to kidnap Ilyana Clea returns the sorcerer’s head to his followers, split open on the blade of her long-axe. 

_ Stephen finds the sight completely revolting and yet oddly… touching as well.  _

“Return to this place,” Clea intones, “ _ think  _ of touching that child again, and I will do this-“ she waggles the severed head towards Kaecilius’ followers- “To everything you know and everyone you have ever loved.” She turns that terrifying stare of hers on the group’s leader. “Do. Not. Test. Me. Girl.” 

And, then using her foot, she blithely detaches the head from her blade and pitches it across the floor towards the interlopers. 

It comes to a bloody, squelching halt at the lead disciple’s feet. 

Thus warned- and chastened- the Company of Kaecilius depart and Ilyana is told to pack for a holiday. She’s being sent to her brother Piotr, a teacher at a prep school up in Westchester. Wanda’s going to drive her there, just as soon as she can get her car started. (It seems to be the only object in all the universe which is immune to magic). 

As she walks by Ilyana whispers a small “thank you,” to Clea and then hurries off, head down, wiping her tears on her sleeve. 

To everyone’s surprise Wong holds out his hand to shake, too. “Thank you,” he says. He and Clea share a long look, a grudging nod and then he’s gone as well, leaving Stephen and the alien woman alone together. Staring at one another. Covered in blood spatter and magical detritus and oddly, weirdly at a loss with one another. 

For such a massive place the Sanctum suddenly seems ridiculously small. 

“They had to be warned,” Clea says steadily, looking at him. 

Strange nods. He understands, he does.  _ If they’d gotten a hold of someone as powerful as Ilyana then who knows what they might have been able to do.  _ And yet-

“You did a thing you knew I wouldn’t do,” he says.

A small smile. 

“I took the initiative so that you wouldn’t have to, Stephen,” she points out. “It’s not the same thing.” 

And Clea shakes her head. Moves away. Nevertheless Stephen smiles. Follows her. Steps in close to her and wthout asking himself why he reaches down. Presses a small kiss to her cheek. 

Her skin is soft and surprisingly warm. One hand presses gently against his sleeve. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. 

Eyes closed, that small smile still tugging her lip, she inhales. Is still. For a moment she meets his eyes, leans into him too, but then- 

“You’re welcome,” she says quietly and before Stephen can respond a portal sparks open. She steps back through it. He sees purple skies behind her, hears the roar of an ocean. 

He doesn’t try to follow her and she doesn’t come home for the rest of the night. 

* * *

Her comings and going become more sporadic after that. 

Where before she had behaved as if she were under house arrest now she behaves more as if she’s at home. As if she’s free. 

_ Stephen wishes he liked it more than he does.  _

For there’s something new between them, something different, and it started the day Kaecilius’ followers tried to take Ilyana. 

He tells himself he doesn’t know what it might be but even he suspects that’s bullshit. 

A week later, when he tries to talk to Christine about it she looks at him in disbelief, her coffee cup paused at her lips. “Are you kidding me?” She asks and at Stephen’s frowns she shakes her head. Reaches out and touches his cheek, her expression exasperated and fond. 

Something about her reaction sets alarm bells ringing. 

“For such a smart man,” she says, “you can be remarkably dense, Stephen Strange.” And she smiles. Takes back her hand. Her pager goes off and she throws a ten on the table, finishes off her cup of Godawfully bad hospital coffee and rises to leave. 

“I might not see you for a while,” she says, too casually. Those ringing alarm bells get louder. “Things with Matt are getting serious and having coffee with my ex is probably not a good look.” She smiles. “Give it a while and then I’ll call-“ 

“What good will that do?” Stephen demands because he’s not sure what’s going on, he’s not used to this, and whatever else she might be to him Christine had never been a mystery. 

_ At least, not until now. _

Again she shoots him and find smile. “Get back in touch when you get yourself a girlfriend,” she says. A twinkle comes into her eye. “Who knows? Maybe you and I can double date- If Clea is up for it.” 

And then she’s off, leaving Stephen wondering why every woman in his life right now seems determined to make an exit and what on Earth a double date with Clea Heartsbane would even look like- 

He walks home, head down, puzzling over Christine’s words though deep down he knows he’s just being stubborn. Oblivious. 

He’s remembering, in infinite detail, the feeling of Clea’s lips beneath his skin. 

_ Maybe,  _ he finds himself thinking,  _ he’ll set up some targets on the firing range and test his sharpshooting skills with that new fire-whip Wanda made him-  _

He opens the door to the mansion though and instantly the Cloak is beside him. Hustling him into the shadows. Wrapping about his shoulders. 

He can see someone who looks a lot like Thor pacing on the landing, holding Clea by her throat and shaking her like a rag doll. Loki is lying, bruised and battered and unmoving, beside them, and the Sanctum itself is a mess- 

Unerringly, unhaltingly, Clea’s eyes go to him and they tell him to run, they give him a warning- 

“I do not damn well think so,” Stephen mutters and with a single gesture he and the Cloak take flight. 

  
  
  
  
  



	8. FleshBound

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to MizJoely, OhAine and IantoLives. Enjoy!

* * *

**FLESHBOUND**

* * *

“You’ve taken up with an idiot, child.” 

And Thor- or the thing that looks like Thor- turns their contemptuous gaze upon Stephen. Grinning and tightening their grip upon Clea whilst simultaneously summoning a ball of dark energy in their fist. 

Black, glittering, tar-like tears run down his cheeks and Stephen is reminded viscerally of the last time he faced Kaecilius. 

Clea lets out a strangled snarl, kicking out her legs and clawing at Thor’s grip on her. She also lets loose some of the more creative expletives she’s learned from Wanda and Banner. It makes no difference: the thing tightens his grip still more, sniggering in her face as she fights back because he knows she can gain no purchase. _Any magic she summons seems to bounce off him, something Stephen has never seen happen before_ , _not with Clea._

 _That is emphatically_ **_Not A Good Sign._ **

And so the sorcerer hangs back, the cloak holding aloft and out of range as he summons and strengthens his shields, as he assesses the threat level posed and what he can do about it. Obviously he doesn’t want to injure Thor- if the being in front of him has merely possessed the Asgardian- but neither is he willing to allow Clea to be hurt- 

“Watching you think like this is painful, Strange,” Thor says mockingly. 

There’s something lean and feral in his gaze now. Hungry. 

_It reminds Stephen of someone he just can't place._

“Why not come at me like a man?” Thor continues. “Match your metal to mine? Isn’t that what you mortals like?” Another mocking grin at Clea. “I admit this vessel is weak, but it is still built for battle-“ 

_So,_ Stephen thinks, _whatever this thing is, it’s wearing a Thor Suit._ **_Not ideal._ ** _But workable-_

“Strike, Stephen,” Clea manages to gasp out. “I’ll take my chances-“ 

“Silence!” And the Thor Suit slams the back of her skull against the nearest pillar. Purplish blood spatters it and threads through Clea’s white hair and for a split second her face goes slack. When she comes out of it her eyes seem less focused than before, her body more lax. Stephen doesn’t need his medical training to know that she’s badly injured now. “You made your choice, child,” the thing hisses into her face, “Now face the consequences-“ 

“Face this.” 

And as rage- fury- blooms inside Stephen he focuses it, forcing the energy into his magic. Slamming his shield charm into the creature, knocking him off balance, once, twice, three times, a trick he learned from Bucky Barnes. A narrower shot might miss but the very size and solidness of his shield mean that it would prove more difficult to fend off and he’s proved right: the impact slams the Thor Suit sideways and he loses his footing, dropping Clea and landing messily. Heavily. 

When he raises his head there’s blood at his mouth and his arm now protrudes from his socket at an odd, sickening angle. 

“You’ll pay for that,” he snarls. 

“So will you.” And Clea slams her foot into his jaw before scrambling backward. On her hands and knees but out of range she drags in deep, panting breaths. She too summons a shield, smaller and weaker than any Stephen has ever seen her conjure before and again that rage rises in him- _He will not see her hurt-_ He slams his shield into the Thor Suit again and again before letting loose a sling of smaller, dagger shaped bolts of lightning. He tells them to stake all that is Thor and Asgardian to the floor of the Sanctum Sanctorum whilst simultaneously opening a portal beneath the Thor Suit, one that leads straight into the Mirror Dimension- 

The Thor suit slams his arms and legs out, pinning himself in place against the corner of the landing and two massively heavy stone stone statues of Foo Dogs, guardians of the Sanctum. 

This allows him to hold himself in place and not fall into the portal. 

_Again,_ Stephen thinks, _Not Ideal._

_But not as effective as he clearly believes._

For at the Thor Suit’s touch the stone Foo Dogs begin to glow ominously, red eyes glinting as they slowly awaken. There’s a click of bone, a stinking, heavy breath taken. Achingly slowly, with territorial predatoriness, they straighten. Pad forward. Their teeth are bigger than any mortal dog’s and their eyes are fiery. _They look the dictionary definition of “pissed.”_

They inspect the Thor Suit coldly and then raise their heads, looking from Stephen to Clea, who has managed to get to her feet. There’s an odd purple light glowing in her chest now, and she’s placed her open palm over it. She’s also chanting under her breath in a language Stephen doesn’t recognises. 

“Pin him,” she tells the dogs. “We will do the rest.” 

And a the Foo Dogs and Stephen watch her hand disappears inside the ball of light within her chest. When she withdraws it, she’s holding the handle of her long-axe. 

It glows wickedly in the Sanctum's Gloom. 

It practically drips dark magic. 

Stephen shoots her a tight grin. “I see teaching Ilyana hasn’t been a one way street,” he says. 

_That trick is exactly how Ilyana hides her Soulsword._

Clea’s smile matches his. “Teaching is never a one way street,” she says softly. Her eyes move to the Thor Suit. Harden. “But then you wouldn’t understand that, would you?” 

And she hefts her axe, swinging it down before her into the Thor Suit’s face. Stephen, his shields still up, widens the portal as she does so so that it’s nearly as wide as the floor. At the same time th walk across the portal, claws clicking, and with a single nod to one another they dive, their stone teeth tearing at the Thor Suit’s chest and legs- 

The Thor Suit screams in pain and Stephen sees something drop from it into the portal below. 

It appears to be fighting its descent. 

The thing is dark, and glittering, and dangerous, and as he watches it flow desperately down he realises what- who- it is. 

_Oh God,_ he thinks, _oh God,_ **_oh God, we didn’t kill him-_ **

Once the thing is through Stephen snaps the portal closed and the Foo Dogs fall back. They pad to stand beside him for a moment, stroke their rough stone cheeks against the Cloak of Levitation and then retake their positions on their respective daises.

“Apologies for the trouble,” Clea says softly and they nod once again before retaking their stance. Closing their eyes. A spark of magic feathers over them and then- 

Then nobody would know that they were anything other than very large statues. 

Suddenly the world is, once again, awfully still. 

The silence stretches out, punctuated only by the two magic workers’ breaths and Thor’s soft groans, groans which peter out as Stephen sends a charm to help him sleep and heal him. 

“So,” Stephen says. 

“So,” Clea answers. 

She doesn’t seem to know what to do with her axe and Stephen feels absolutely the same. 

“Your father’s not dead,” Stephen says, gesturing to the (now passed out but no longer possessed) Thor and Clea winces. Nods. “It appears not.” She takes a step towards him, her expression worried. “Are you harmed? Did he hurt you? Did he do more damage than I can see-?” 

Quite without his willing it to, the Cloak pushes him forward and wraps itself around the both. Their bodies collide with a collective “Oomph,” which neither of them expect. Their eyes meet, worried, concerned, mouths opening to ask questions and then with another yank the Cloak has wrapped tightly around Clea. Pulled her closer.

She looks up at Stephen, her axe forgotten, her eyes glowing violet in the warm, shadowed room, and suddenly the world is absolutely lit up. 

For, as if it were nothing more than might be expected, nothing more than the obvious outcome, she brings her lips to Stephen’s and kisses him. Harshly. Hungrily. Desperately. 

Suddenly they can’t seem to get enough of each other and Stephen can’t bear to stop and wonder why. 

There’s a hiss of magic, a lash _of it and the_ n they’re through a portal and inside Stephen’s bedroom and the only thing they’re wearing is the Cloak of Levitation- 

It pulls away, drops them unceremoniously onto the bed. Intentions now clear and its role as catalyst done for now it disappears off, somehow managing to look far too smug for a creature without a face-

Not that Stephen and Clea even notice its departure. 

Because they’re too busy kissing, grabbing, caressing, _loving-_

“Are you sure about this?” Stephen gasps, something which Clea answers by stopping his words with a kiss. 

  
  



	9. ScarBlessed

_ Disclaimer:  _ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to MizJoely, OhAine, devilgrrl and IantoLives. Enjoy!

* * *

**SCARBLESSED**

* * *

He’s panting, and he’s naked, and Clea is running her teeth along his throat and it feels fucking  _ awesome.  _

One hand is filled with her bare breast and the other is desperately trying to find purchase on the bed behind him. To tug her towards him. Hell, perhaps it’s even trying to slide its way between her legs.  _ He can’t wait to find out how she feels.  _ **_Tastes_ ** _.  _

Panting himself, grinning, Stephen pulls Clea to him and kisses her again- again- She growls deep in her throat and with a triumphant laugh he wrestles her beneath him, her head hitting the pillow with a thud- 

She lets out a tiny, barely noticeable huff of discomfort and Stephen stops. Looks down at her. 

Clea grins gamely up at him, her violet eyes glowing in her delight. “More,” she says, reaching for him, “more, this nakedness is most enjoyable-“ 

“You’re hurt.” 

Stephen doesn’t man his voice to come out quite so gruffly as it does but he can’t help it. Suddenly he’s irritated with himself, hot and bothered because he let the Cloak, and Clea, and his own damn hormones run away with him.  _ Shit,  _ he thinks, gritting his teeth and trying to put some much needed distance between he and the gorgeous, naked, confused-looking woman in his bed. 

_ Shit,  _ he thinks it again,  _ shit, shit, shit…  _

“What’s wrong?” She asks, frowning, sitting up, and as if in answer Stephen gestures to his pillow. There’s the barest trace of blood on it, from the back of her head. From that sickening impact Dormammu had inflicted on her while possessing Thor. 

“That’s wrong,” he says pointedly. 

The frown intensifies. 

“But I need only move more carefully,” she says, reaching for him once more. Her grin is, well, it’s gorgeous. And sinful as Hellfire.  _ God, he likes it.  _ “And quite frankly Stephen, one of the only good things about nearly dying as often as I do is how often I have followed it with bouts of spectacularly good coitus-“ She drops her voice to a purr- “I assure you, you will enjoy what I’m capable of-“ 

“I don’t need you to prove what you’re  _ capable _ of.” 

He doesn’t mean it that way, of course he doesn’t, but he hears the way it sounds and suddenly Stephen is, once again, swearing fluently in his native New Yorkese, if only inside his head. This time she really does flinch, he sees it, and suddenly he feels like a damn asshole. “Clea,” he says, reaching for her, “Clea, I’m sorry-“ 

She’s trying to scramble out of the bed, eyes scanning the floor for her clothes. God only knows where they’ve ended up. “I should go,” she says, throat tight, “I should- I should-“ 

“I should apologise.” He clears his throat. “And then you can go if you want. But… I’m sorry.” He reaches out. Takes her hand. It feels tiny in his. “I’m sorry Clea.” He knows that he sounds like he’s pulling teeth but dammit, he doesn’t want her leaving like this. And he certainly doesn’t want her on her own if she has a concussion, he doesn’t care how pissed she is at him. 

Slowly he releases her, holds both his own hands up in surrender. She’s staring at him, too many expressions passing over her face to catalogue. The main contenders seem to be annoyance and confusion. 

_ Well, isn’t that just them in a nutshell?  _

“You want me,” she says slowly. She gestures with her chin to his (now deeply uncomfortable and slowly flagging) erection. “That means you want me. At least, it does in humans. I checked.” 

Stephen nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do.” He inches closer towards her, refusing to entertain the mental image of her researching human male anatomy.  _ Christ.  _ “But I refuse to believe that you didn’t know that before now-” 

“No.” She inclines her head. “Though I had thought that perhaps…” She lets the words hang on the air. 

“And yet, I am aware of what I did to you. Of what I could have done. Of what I am  _ capable  _ of.” Slowly, cautiously, she moves back to perch on the edge of the bed. Slowly, cautiously, she moves her hand until it rests atop his. 

_ How long has it been,  _ Stephen wonders,  _ since he touched someone like this? _

“Why are you so mystifying, Stephen Strange?” She asks quietly. 

He reaches out. Touches her cheek. Her skin is so soft, so warm. “I might ask you the same question, Clea Heartsbane,” he says. 

At the sound of her name on his lips she closes her eyes. Leans into him. 

Her forehead comes to rest against his chest and his left hand finds its way into her hair. 

Now he’s looking for it he can see the traces of her blood amid the white. 

“Let me look at that,” he says softly. 

She opens her eyes. Stares at him. “You know nothing of my anatomy, Stephen,” she says. 

He can’t help his smile. “I wouldn't quite say that,” he says, gesturing to their naked bodies. Clea smiles too. “Besides, you can teach me. You can tell me what you need.” 

“You trust me to know?” The words are, Stephen suspects, supposed to sound blithe, but they do not. Rather, they speak of something else, something sorrowing and old and long-ago-helpless. He remembers Wanda’s words from long ago:  _ Do you think anyone grows up dreaming of being Dormammu’s torturer?  _ And speaking of- 

“We should probably check on Thor too,” he says. 

She nods. “I suspect Loki may need our help as well.” At his look her smile turns impish. “Imagine how horrified he will be at having to thank you for aid.” 

Stephen smiles. Nods. Acting on impulse he takes her face in his hands. Presses a kiss to her forehead. She wraps her arms tightly about his waist. 

“Do you know where your clothes are?” He asks, to which she shakes her head. 

“I have no idea where the Cloak sent them,” she says, “But it’s no matter-“ And she gestures delicately with her fingers. As if from nowhere a dress of white and violet forms on her body. A suit- her favourite, Stephen note- appears on his. 

“Impressive,” Stephen says. 

That impish grin widens. “I can will them away as quickly,” she says. “Just so you know.”

And she laughs. Her eyes glow and she leans her forehead, once again, on his chest. Stephen wraps his arms around her, pulling her in for one last kiss before they go to check on the Brothers Odinsson and Clea’s own injury- 

As he does so the room shifts however, the floor cracking open as if made of glass. 

Eyes like diseased stars peer through the cracks and reality splinters at their feet. 

For a moment the world tilts sickeningly, gravity just a memory- They fall or fly, he’s not sure which-

And then a howl of such fury that it sets Stephen’s ears ringing echoes through the Sanctum Santorum as the world falls asunder...

  
  



	10. MirrorMad

_ Disclaimer:  _ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to MizJoely, OhAine and IantoLives. Enjoy!

* * *

**MIRRORMAD**

* * *

It takes Stephen a split second to realise that he’s in the Mirror Dimension. 

It takes him another second to realise that he probably has been for a while. 

After all, much as the Cloak likes to take care of him, the fact that it whisked him away to his bedroom and the woman he wants as much as he wants Clea  _ after she’d gotten a concussion  _ should probably have been an indication that something wasn’t right. 

How could it not have occurred to him to question the Cloak’s actions? 

As he thinks this he hears a deep booming laugh, sees the cracked, glass-like edges of the universe about them twist and writhe once more. He tries to summon a shield but nothing happens and for the first time in a long time panic whispers along Stephen’s spine. 

_ That… That shouldn’t be possible,  _ **_even in here._ **

But panic is the worst reaction he could have right now so he pushes it back. Focuses on his breathing. He has to come up with a plan- He’s good at coming up with plans.  _ He’s the Sorcerer Supreme, dammit. _ There’s nothing though; every ounce of magic from the Mirror Dimension seems to have been leached into the creature before him. Dormammu is hideous, glorious, gorging himself on it like the predator he is. 

_ All that exists in this place is him _ . 

Around the eldritch creature, glittering like diamonds, the shards of Mirror Dimension are snaking into ropes. Nooses. They bind Stephen’s hands. His feet. They dig into his skin. He begins an incantation and one twists around his neck, pulling tight. Cutting off his words- Not that they seemed to be having any effect anyway- 

He hears a strangled, “No!” From Clea.

He looks at her: she’s bound by her hands and waist but there’s nothing around  _ her  _ neck. She too is murmuring incantations, her lips moving softly, but nothing is happening. 

_ It occurs to Stephen that he and Clea may be sort of screwed and that is  _ **_not_ ** _ a welcome thought.  _

As if in mockery of the realisation, two tiny slivers of Mirror Dimension snake beneath both Stephen and her sling rings and flick them neatly off both into the darkness. Stranding them here. Leaving them helpless. “Oh,” Stephen mutters. “Oh, shit.” 

Clea doesn’t seem to hear him, though. “Father,” she’s saying, “father, please-“ 

Dormammu’s laughter grows louder. More merry. 

“What did you used to tell your prisoners, child?” He cackles. “Ah yes: Begging mercy of an emperor is like begging mercy of a hurricane. If you were worthy of it, you would not ask.” Sickened, glittering eyes gleam between the cracks of the Mirror Dimension. A smile slits the air. “Of course, that was when you had sense- 

Something it seems this creature has robbed you of...” 

And the noose around Stephen’s neck tightens, cutting off his air supply. He concentrates, trying to drag the oxygen around him towards himself, to fashion a breathing field around his body. 

At Dormammu’s words rage unlike anything Strange has ever seen darkens Clea’s features, however. “I needed no mortal paramour to want you dead,” she hisses. “Father.” She makes the word sound like an insult. Again Dormammu laughs. 

“Or should I call you Uncle? Thief? What exactly is your true title? Since I know it is not Emperor-  _ That _ you stole from my mother-” 

And she tugs, managing to get her hands free. 

Her fingers stretch, elongate, searching for those alien, hateful eyes. Trying to slash. 

As she does so diseased starlight blooms through Clea’s flesh, making her look even more Dormammu’s kin. 

Stephen feels his blood run cold at the sight. 

Dormammu’s laughter booms again, though. “Oh ho, there’s my fine girl!” He says. “There’s my little Heartsbane!” He lashes out, sends Clea reeling, plummeting through space only to be yanked violently upwards again like a puppet. Those diseased eyes focus on Stephen and the binds around his wrists twist, tightening. Three new ropes snake around his chest, hard enough to crack bone. 

This time Clea screams. 

Stephen reaches deep inside himself, trying to find some spark, some tiny flash of magic. Clea’s eyes meet his, horror in them, and then suddenly something, some dark, diseased  _ thing _ begins creeping beneath his flesh, skimming along his hands. Up his chest, across his back. In the dim starlight he can see that his fingers are becoming speckled with the same, diseased, starlit blight as Dormammu and Clea’s. 

The thought makes him feel sick. 

Nevertheless Stephen wills himself to be still, trying to concentrate on what’s happening to him.  _ Universe,  _ he thinks darkly,  _ I’ve come to bargain.  _ As wrong as whatever is inside him is, he tells himself, it’s probably come from Clea. It’s also clearly trying to keep him alive; If he can just gain control of it… 

His eyes meet Clea’s and she nods, very tightly. 

_ Good,  _ Stephen thinks.  _ We’re on the same page here.  _

Dormammu sees the exchange but he doesn’t seem to understand it. Instead he laughs mockingly. “Isn’t she something, mortal?” He croons. “So proud, so unyielding! So utterly mine.” The mirrored ropes which bind her tug Clea upwards like a rag doll once more, Dormammu’s body growing so massive that it dwarfs all else. Against his monstrousness not even those talons of hers stand a chance, and yet she still tries, slashing at him. Screaming in murderous, impotent rage. 

Nothing she does makes the slightest difference: it’s like watching a mouse attack a storm. 

“All of my tests,” Dormammu is saying. “All of my hopes dashed, only to discover in her the one thing I had wanted. The one thing I had needed.” His smile is fond now, but manic. There’s an edge of mania to it that Stephen hasn’t seen before. 

“I knew when I saw her with your temple guardians, I knew that she had become what I always wanted…” 

And he reaches out, takes Clea inside massive palms until she looks like a toy in his grip. Stephen’s fairly certain he doesn’t want to know but he still rasps out, “And what’s that? What is it you want her to be?” 

Dormammu’s eyes gleam darkly. 

His smile is a feral slash of darkness and night. 

“A successor,” he says softly. “I want a successor, and now I’ve found her.” 

The horror of this idea is obvious in both Stephen and Clea’s expressions and the great Dormammu smiles again. 

“I admit, I underestimated you, child,” he murmurs. He has turned his gaze entirely onto Clea. “I admit, I thought you too like your mother, and for that reason I did not treat you with the honour you deserve- My apologies, dear one.” 

He tightens his grip on her. 

“Believe me, I will not make the same mistake again.” 

And more ropes twist, binding Clea and pulling at her. Her body is wrenched as taut as a spring, agony on her face. Dormammu examines her as if she were a fragile, lovely thing. “And then I come here,” Dormammu is saying. “I see your strength, your rage. I see how merciless you can be when that which you value is threatened and I admit it- I’m impressed. Impressed enough to admit I was mistaken.” 

His eyes flicker down to Stephen. 

“I am seldom wrong in matters of power but I was wrong about you- Believe me, I will not make that mistake again.” 

And then suddenly Stephen is held tight in Dormammu’s hand, staring across an expanse that feels like forever at Clea. She has the oddest look on her face. Clear. Harsh. Deadened. He is reminded, suddenly,  _ horribly,  _ of the night she asked him what music was. There are tears in her eyes and he wants to tell her he understands, he wants to comfort her, but then- 

“Do it,” Dormammu whispers to her. “Do what you know you must to survive, Heartsbane.” 

Clea looks at the being she has repeatedly tried to murder. 

“I would have him,” she says. Haltingly. Brokenly. She gestures to Stephen. “I would- You keep pets, why can’t I?” 

Dormammu laughs, delighted apparently. 

Again Stephen sees that manic look in his eye. 

“That creature there is no pet, my child,” he tells Clea. “Leave him alive and he will end both of us- Deep in your heart you know that.” 

And with a tiny movement he releases the alien woman. Sets her down in front of Stephen. Gives her a small, encouraging push towards the mortal man. Strange is still trying to get free, still struggling and as he looks at the woman before him he suddenly realises it is imperative he try.  _ He has to get free  _ **_now._ ** For softly, gently, Clea leans down. Presses a kiss to his lips as she had the last time he was to be executed. 

It burns in the loveliest, most heartbreaking way. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. She lays her forehead on his. “I will make it quick.” 

And then she reaches into her chest and pulls out her long-axe. 

”I love you,” she murmurs, the words barely audible. 

Stephen sees the weapon rise, sees its fall. A glittering arc in the darkness. A fate in a second of time. He closes his eyes, preparing to do something, anything-  _ He will not die here today, Godammit-  _

And then the axe cuts right through him and cleaves him in two. 

Pain is all he can feel and Dormammu’s laughter is all he can hear- 

Until it stops.    
  
  
  



	11. StarBorne

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews to MizJoely, OhAine, IantoLives and devilgrrl. This is the penultimate episode and it’s a bit gory- I promise there will be sweetness in the next, but until then- Enjoy!

* * *

**STARBORNE**

* * *

For a moment Stephen doesn’t understand what has happened. There is-

Silence. 

Laughter- Dormammu’s laughter. 

He is dead. Clea killed him. _Clea Heartsbane killed him._

But…

A heartbeat or an eon, he doesn’t know. The silence is oppressive, a fist in which he is being crushed. He can’t feel his heart beating, can’t feel his fingers. His pulse. _This isn’t what the Astral Plane feels like_. 

And yet- 

_Why is he watching from above, detached, weightless, as the sides of his body fall in two?_ Some voice inside him demands. _Why is Clea shaking, her shoulders wracked with tears?_

He doesn’t understand. He cannot understand. He will not let himself comprehend it. 

(Except, of course, that deep down he can and he will and he does). 

His mind fights though, shies away from the knowledge. Acceptance is abhorrent. _He can’t be dead- Not dead and_ **_aware_ ** _of it_. That’s not how any of this works. He can see Clea standing before him, her axe a blur of motion and wicked intent as it slams into the ground beneath his corpse. 

Slams. Cracks. Stays. _Slays_. 

Blood soaks and spatters- his blood- and he is in pieces. She has rend him in two. _Why would she do that?_ The ground beneath- Dormammu’s flesh- smokes and stinks as the axe finds its home. Star-sick black licks around its blade, its handle. Towards Clea’s hands. Clea’s eyes. There’s blood pouring from her nose, she’s breathing hard, muttering under her breath. Stephen can’t make out the words but he is sure that they are magical, and there is a look of such agony on her face. _She knows she killed me,_ he thinks. _She knows she killed me, and she’s sorry but she still did it._

A shudder, then. 

A shudder, like the turning of a giant and Stephen is caught within its stomach. 

A breath taken, once, twice, sharp, a cough and then Dormammu’s not laughing anymore, no. 

_No_. 

No, Dormammu’s hissing, angry, an eldritch sound that makes the walls of this place shake. That makes Stephen’s body quake, there where it lays at Clea’s feet. Underneath that hissing, angry voice Stephen can hear… Fear. Yes, fear. Stephen recognises this guest as if it were an old friend. 

_That is because, however much he might shun it, it is._

“What..?” Dormammu gasps. “What have you done, daughter?” 

Those mad eyes search her face, though for what? 

Stephen doesn’t know. 

“I have done,” Clea says quietly, “what I had to do.” 

She steps back, hand still on her axe, and looks at her father. 

“You’re right: Stephen Strange wasn’t meant to be anyone’s pet.” 

And at her words the Mirror Dimension starts to crack and break apart. 

It’s beautiful. Disjointed. Chaotic. Entire. Pieces of the universe slash and slide through Stephen and he doesn’t feel a thing. All is light, sharp and reflective; it crackles and glitters. Glistens. Gleams. A thousand-thousand-thousand versions of the tableaux before him fan out before Stephen’s eyes, so many that he thinks he might be going mad. 

The dark, glimmering star-sick skin with which Dormammu had dominated this place starts to fall inward towards Clea and Stephen’s body, as if dragged in a gravitational pull. _It’s like watching the formation of a black hole_. Dormammu gasps, snarls, and then suddenly he’s not massive or huge anymore, suddenly he’s just another being in this place. Just another creature. One powerful, yes, but not total. All-encompassing. Whatever he had taken from the Mirror Dimension, he doesn’t have it anymore… 

“Yes,” Clea murmurs. She smiles, a terrible thing. “Yes, throne-thief, now you begin to understand.” 

And she closes her eyes, tilts her head back. She opens her mouth and lets loose a note, a single pure hit of music, and as she does stars begin to vomit forth from within her. It’s like watching the Big Bang. The stars rush and batter and tear at the Mirror Dimension, pummelling it from within. That same star-sick greyness which had infected Dormammu, which she had infected Stephen with, that has started to spread through her. All over her. It’s like watching ink and starlight tattoo themselves beneath her skin. _Were things a little different, Stephen would find it beautiful, this tableaux of star death and star birth._ But this is not beautiful, what he’s seeing. No, it feels wrong. Forbidden. A mortal man is not supposed to witness the setting wild of a universe. Clea bends down. Picks up one of Stephen’s hands- one of his corpse’s hands- and presses it to her lips. 

“I am sorry,” she murmurs. “There was no other way,” she murmurs and it causes a painful twist in his gut because Stephen knows exactly what that means. Exactly why she did this. 

It is in that moment that he realises he cannot blame her, even if it has cost him his life. 

For as he watches, Dormammu starts to break apart. His essence, his power, it flows into Clea and from her into Stephen’s dead body. Oceans of it, rivers of it, they flow out of the Lord of the Dark Dimension and into Stephen Strange’s corpse and Clea Heartsbane _. It looks both beautiful and oddly obscene._ For Stephen watches his body twitch, twist. Blacken. It smokes like ash, cracked and broken only to spark, bright as flame and regenerate again. _A phoenix he seems, a phoenix in the flesh._ The same process happens to Clea, smoke, fire, ash, the cycle starting again, seeding again, until it seems to Stephen that looking at them both is like watching two pumps beat in the same heart. Like watching two veins carry the same blood. 

The air grows heavy, thick. It swirls and ebbs like water. Like music. Dormammu grows smaller and smaller, weaker and weaker, and still Clea holds strong to Stephen’s corpse. Still she holds his hands. 

Still she sings forth stars and still they tear against the Mirror Dimensions bounds. 

Dormammu grasps for her, weak, mad and terrified and as he does she reaches out. Slams her hand into his chest and pulls, ripping an object which Stephen suspects is his heart right out of his chest. She holds it before his eyes. “For you,” she says and Stephen isn’t sure who she’s talking to, he only knows that she’s holding it up. Puncturing its mass with her claws. The blood drips down her arm, down the axe’s handle… It’s dripping onto Stephen’s corpse now, into Stephen’s corpse now, and suddenly, suddenly there’s pain, suddenly there’s agony unlike any he’s ever felt before… 

Stephen Strange opens his eyes to a sky full of new stars and his bed in the Sanctum Santorum. 

Clea Heartsbane is nowhere to be seen. 

  
  
  
  



	12. A New Thing In The Heavens

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This is the final foray into his universe for me and I would like to thank everyone who has joined me: MizJoely, OhAine, IantoLives, devilgrrl and everyone else who has read, given kudos and left the odd review. I hope you like this. 

* * *

**A NEW THING IN THE HEAVENS**

* * *

In the end they catalogue ninety seven new stars in the night sky above New York, and a few dozen more, visible only in the Southern Hemisphere. 

Jane Foster is so excited about this development that she finally agrees to go out with Thor again. (In fairness, he woos her by offering access to the Sanctum Santorum’s astronomical equipment. 

What astrophysicist could resist?) 

Other planets report similar experiences to Earth’s: Stephen hears from Loki (who heard it from Nebula, who heard it from Carol Danvers) that across the galaxy thousands of stars which had been missing for centuries have flared back into existence. Their planets too. Some exist for only a moment before disintegrating. Others sputter on, bereft of life. Many, however, have small populations, populations which had spent the last millennia feeding Dormammu and the Dark Dimension. 

On those planets there are rumours of a woman, a woman with electric lavender eyes and sickly starlight skin. 

Stephen hears that they call her The Walker Between Worlds.

She appears throughout these new planets, speaking to the populations. Helping resettle territorial disputes and fears of both invasion and unrest. Settling rules of law and easing the populations’ reentry into galactic society. 

Because of this, she is sometimes known as The Peacemaker. She is also, sometimes, disparagingly called The Plague Maiden (though Stephen doubts that’s ever said to her face). 

When he hears these stories Strange closes his eyes and smiles, because he knows who they refer to and he knows now why she did what she did, even if it meant killing him. 

_It turns out that Clea Heartsbane is capable of a great deal more than just being Dormammu’s torturer._

When he explains this to Wong, Wanda and the other Avengers the only one who really believes him is Bucky Barnes. Stephen supposes he can understand why, too: more than any of them The Winter Soldier knows about trying to make a new life for yourself in the wake of an unspeakable past. _He understands the need for redemption._ The others remain wary, sceptical, wondering whether Clea is trying to put together a new empire, one made in Dormammu’s image and using gratitude for ending the Dark Dimension’s villainy as a way to build loyalty… 

Stephen leaves them to their theories. 

He knows the truth, deep in his bones, and that’s enough for him. 

Sometimes, late at night, he stares at the night sky above New York and remembers The Walker Between Worlds. Stares at his wrists, roped about with the remains of Dormammu’s last, star-sick body. _It is probably this which allowed Clea to bring him back to life,_ he muses. These reminders, they ache in a very different way to his hands, now- And yet, Stephen hopes Clea’s happy, wherever she is. Whatever she’s doing. If she were here, he would tell her he has faith in her. 

The Beatles sing about places they remember, people too, the city a lullaby in Stephen’s ear. 

* * *

A year passes, then two. Three. Four. Five. ( _How the Hell has it been five?)_

There are battles and worries and he lives through two more apocalypses, both of which he manages to reverse. 

_This is, Wong assures him, pretty much business as usual for The Sorcerer Supreme._

Stephen continues to train, continues to learn. He even, occasionally, takes advice from someone other than Wong. After the breakup Wanda moves to Kamer Taj permanently, taking over the day to day training of the recruits. _Needless to say, Wong does not go with her._ Loki reverts back to his female form and reconnects with his wife, Sigyn; Thor and Jane marry a few months after their reunion and pretty soon there are a bunch of little Asgard/Midgard/Jotunn hybrids running around the Sanctum Santorum and getting under Stephen’s feet. (They are all, of course, both adorable and terrifyingly powerful, which is why they live there). 

Christine Palmer becomes Christine Murdoch, having married the lawyer she was dating and through her Stephen meets his next three girlfriends: Clare Temple (she dumps him), Mercedes “Misty,” Knight (she also dumps him) and Jessica Jones (she never dumps him, she just keeps disappearing until he gets the hint. Also, she wrecks his car with a baseball bat after a night of heavy drinking and after that, Stephen decides that maybe celibacy is a good idea for a while. 

It will be easier on his conscience and his belongings.

After her second turn in rehab Jessica agrees) 

Through all this, he never quite stops thinking about Clea. He knows it’s unfair of him, and he knows it’s ridiculous, but he can’t ever quite banish her from his thoughts. They are, after all, bound by more than flesh now. When she killed him and brought him back she remade him anew. And even if they weren’t still connected, well… Stephen knows what he feels. _He suspects he will never change how he feels, and deep down he doesn’t want to._ But Clea’s not there and Stephen, despite his profession, is a realist, so he just ploughs onwards and gets on with the Avenging, Defending and even, occasionally, The X-Menning (it’s a long story.) 

His life is full. 

His life is interesting. (Wonderfully, horrifically interesting.) 

And if, in the deepest, darkest hours of the night he can’t help but acknowledge that he is not happy, well, what’s happiness? He’s not sure he’s ever felt it, not for long. Not with anyone. He’s not even sure he’s built for it. 

_Happiness is the one luxury which he never was able to buy, even on his surgeon’s wage._

And then one night he comes home to the sound of _Rubber Soul_ in his rooms, and the scent of perfume on his sheets, and he realises that even if he’s not built for happiness there still might be a share of it that’s his to be had-

_He just has to be willing to reach out and take it._

* * *

She looks older than he thought she would, and more human. That’s his first thought. His second is that she seems so much easier in herself, in her own skin, than the person he lived with five years ago. Her hair has grown even longer, pearlescent white now and streaked with purple. It hangs down to her knees. Her eyes are softer too, less electric, and around her wrists she sports the same set of once-were-starlight bands of flesh he does.

Her hands go to them when she sees him, her eyes flicking questioningly to his. 

Very slowly, very carefully, Stephen pulls up his sleeves and lets her see the scars she left him with. 

“They held,” she breathes out, her voice soft. Relieved. She smiles and it’s bright. Pleased. Now she looks at him and if he didn’t know her better he’d swear she was blushing. “I wasn’t sure,” she says. “I had to leave before…” 

“Before I came to,” he supplies. 

To his surprise, there’s no annoyance in his voice. 

She frowns, blinks at him. She must notice it too. “Do they not pain you?” She asks. “They do me-“

“Pain is an old friend, Clea.” He steps over the threshold. Closes the distance between them. “Just like you.”

With that perfect timing it has always possessed the Cloak of Levitation floats off his shoulders and flits off to its own place. 

Stephen can’t help but feel it’s trying to give him a hint and, judging by the small smile tugging at her lip, Clea agrees with him. 

“An old friend, am I?” She asks. He nods, stepping closer to her. “I’ve never had an old friend before.” The Beatles croon in the background, the same song she’d first listened to in this room, and at his nearness she gulps. Meets his gaze. 

She steps suddenly, deliciously close to him.

Her eyes are pools of starlight. 

“Is an old friend all I am?” She asks quietly. “Or might we-“ 

He doesn’t let her finish, won’t take a chance on her misunderstanding. Taking her face in his hands Stephen kisses her, long and sweet and deep. As long and deep and sweet as the last five years’ longings have been. It should be ridiculous; it should be unbelievable. It should be the last thing on his mind. By rights, they should be having a long damn talk about disappearing acts, and high handedness, and making decisions for other people (not that he can really afford to complain about others doing that). They should be discussing everything else the last five years have wrought. 

But instead, instead he just kisses her. He just breathes her in and holds her close and, when they have to part he stares down at her. Waiting for her. Aching for her. 

He had thought he lost the ability to want anything as much as he wants her right now when he lost his hands, but he was wrong. 

“Again,” she murmurs. Her eyes flutter open. “Again, Stephen Strange,” she tells him, “Or I shall start to think that old friends are all we are…” 

And this time, despite her order, _she_ kisses _him._

That one kiss leads to another, which leads to another, which leads to a loss of clothes and inhibitions and, eventually, a loss of control. They fall into bed together, a press of passion and pleasure and newness. A joy five years in the making. It feels glorious. Strong and new and right and Jesus, Stephen thinks, Jesus, this is what happiness feels like... 

* * *

In the morning they will talk. 

In the morning, they will lay ground rules and ask awkward questions and figure out how to make this- all of this- work. 

But it’s not the morning right now, not even the dawn, and Stephen is just fine with that. He knows he’s not going anywhere and somehow, somehow, he knows that neither is she. The Walker Between Worlds has returned to him. She came back, as he’d always hoped she would. 

Again he thinks it, again: _This is what happiness feels like.  
_

He might not be built for it, but he can damn well learn. 

The city sings, and the Beatles sing, and he and Clea’s bodies sing together in the darkness… Because finally they’re both home. Home in one another, home with one another. The rightness of it burns, a ember in his chest. His heart. This is a new and different sort of magic. 

“No more killing me to save the universe,” he murmurs drowsily against her cheek. 

“No promises,” Clea smiles and though she’s joking, Stephen understands that she’s not as well. She can’t be. Neither can he- And they’re both ok with that. After all, that’s what happiness looks like when you’re the Sorcerer Supreme...

“Kiss me, Stephen,” she whispers and he is happy to oblige. 

_The Beginning_

* * *

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. And if you did, sure leave a wee comment. Hobbits away, hey!  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
